


Yuletide Wishes

by lmirandas



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fantasy, Magic, Multi, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2018, Rekindling of old relationships, Reunion, Royalty AU, Starcrossed Lovers, Winter, Yule, mystrade, mystrade au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 02:58:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17072207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmirandas/pseuds/lmirandas
Summary: Finally some good in the Land of the Trees. Good King John is marrying the man of his dreams, Prince Sherlock of the Northern realm. Of course, King Mycroft must attend the wedding, even if it means going face to face with his old flame, the Good and Great King of the South.





	Yuletide Wishes

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Mystrade Advent Calendar 2018, but it went a tad over the word limit, so now it will get posted as it was, without cutting some of the words. I hope you all enjoy it!

King Mycroft sighed, resigned, as he looked through the window of his mountain castle. The mines, the heart of his kingdom, were unusually quiet today, even though the king knew they were still at work. The last snowstorm seemed to be muffling the usual sounds of the work that incessantly drew the ichor from the veins within the top three peaks. Most of it automatized, a mixture of magic, ingenuity and magnificent architecture, the work of a genius king. Fewer people frequented the mountain nowadays, content to stay in the city below, gathering their resources for the harsh winters they had in the North. Winters that every year caught them prepared, having a ruler who knew how to maximise their resources, so struggles were rare in their land, usually limited to travelling caravans from the nearby Tree country or emissaries from the South. The locals quickly admitted those who found themselves unprepared for the harsh change in weather in their houses and inns since southerners had a reputation of being hospitable, and the northerners never wanted to be branded as less than any southerner.

Both kingdoms were rivals in a good-humoured kind of way, which was funny since both their kings were rumoured to hate each other since they were younger. People didn't speak of the rivalry and supposed hatred between their ruling sovereigns. Most people didn't even remember when the whole thing started.

Unfortunately for him, King Mycroft _did_ remember how the nightmare started, and he dreaded the coming Yule festivities since it meant being in the same quarters for at least one week with the Great and Noble King of the South. He had to be there, there was no possible excuse, and he did want to be there for his brother on his most special day. His brother, Prince Sherlock, was finally marrying the man he always loved, the Bold and Daring King of Tree Country, John of the Watson clan. Their story was also tinged with sadness, promised to each other since childhood when John was the ward of the King of the North, Sherlock and Mycroft's father, Old King Siger the Sage. Inseparable, Sherlock and John shared games and learning, under the strict eye of their tutor, the prodigious northern witch Martha of the Hudson Rivers. Her training made John one of the few capable to wield magic in Tree and Plain country, even though his talents were limited, not as vast as the ones his bosom companion had. John was a man built for fighting; his shorter height sometimes made people doubt that statement, which usually ended with those people meeting the edge of his sword.

Mycroft remembered his brother appearing in his chambers unannounced, just a couple of weeks before, out of thin air. It was that special kind of transporting Magic perfected by those of the Holmes clan, which drained their reserves, so Sherlock collapsed at his feet with tears in his face. Mycroft, unused to such displays from him, almost wrecked his throne room in anger, his magic out of control, which only happened when his little brother was involved. Little did he know, those were tears of joy. His brother showed him his betrothal ring, a beautiful silver band with two stones intertwined, the colours of both their family crests. Thoughtful of John, upholding tradition.

That day had Mycroft reminding himself of those happy days, the days before the war in the Tree country. Poor Sherlock, his happiness was doomed from the very beginning. The Jolly King of Tree Land and the Crown Princess died in battle against the Lords of the Fire Plains, and Prince John became King John at the young age of 18. Unfortunately for both him and his betrothed, Sherlock could not produce an heir, situation that caused the dissolution of the engagement agreement by the will of his Uncle, The Great and Noble King of the South. John then married Mycroft and Sherlock's aunt, a sorceress in her own right and a nod to keeping the relationships between both kingdoms secure since the "unfortunate incident" which happened a few years before had already left the relations between the Northern and Southern Kingdoms in a tightrope. Of course, Tree country still wanted to keep things nice and civil. Sherlock even liked his aunt Mary, she was witty and treated the boy nicely. She was ten years her new husband's senior, and the new Royal Couple soon welcomed an heiress, Crown Princess Rosamund the Mage.

Sherlock doted on the Princess since she was very young. The Northern Prince was appointed as her Godfather and personal tutor, deciding to leave the Northern Kingdom to join his friend as his court Mage; her natural talents being better than her father's since the blood of the Vernet clan of the North flowed through his heiress' veins. She was a warrior and a witch, and her Father's pride, joy and right hand in his relentless border fights, which finally ended on her 19th birthday. Unfortunately, the cost was high for the Princess, since Queen Mary sent her all her remaining life force in the final battle, another of the Vernet's family tricks, the same way Mycroft and Sherlock's mother departed for great beyond. The whole Tree Kingdom welcomed the spring with grief, and as the Sacred Trees blossomed, they bid farewell to their Queen. Now, Yule was coming, and this winter they welcomed the nuptials of their King to Prince Sherlock, who was officially called The Wizard who Knows, but who the kingdom in jest called Prince Sherlock the Patient. Still, if Sherlock was happy, Mycroft was delighted, even if only his General, the Lady Anthea, was the only one who could tell. He needed to get a hold of his thoughts before leaving on the three-day journey from his mountain castle.

"Ready your highness?"

His commander was wearing her gala uniform, one of them at least, and Mycroft sighed, better to get it over with then.

"Are you sure you want to ride with the caravan, Sir? You could be there earlier if you used your magic."  
"I'd rather ride with the rest, thank you, General. The caravan has to pay their proper respects to the Prince, and it wouldn't do to arrive at Tree country empty-handed."  
"As you wish, your Majesty."

The road ahead was rocky, and a little barren, the downslope from the mountains challenging to handle for any vehicles except Northern built ichor-fueled ones. With a bit of wizardry and tons of creativity, the ride was comfortable for most people in the caravan, the Lords, Ladies and military personnel who would ride to celebrate the happiness of one of their own. The Royal Family was respected, even feared by some in the North, known for their wisdom and fairness. Some called the King cold, some called him ruthless, but you would never hear a Northerner calling his monarch unfair. The carriage was warm, but Mycroft, all arms and legs, still wrapped himself around his cloak tighter, the scarce light reflected on the grey and blue of his family crest, which he repeated in his attire. His coat, covered inside with fur from mountain wolves who got hair groomed during summer, would be considered an excessive garment for a carriage, but still, Mycroft shivered. Anthea decided to ride up front, guiding the rest of them through the treacherous path, which left Mycroft alone with his thoughts. Remembering was usually hurtful, and Mycroft was busy with his duties to distract himself much with memories. But all alone with nothing else to do, or at night, just before sleep found him, the thoughts came back unbidden.

* * *

 

"It's only for a couple of years son; it's a good idea for you to acquaint yourself with your betrothed and her kingdom."

His father was trying to cheer him up, but as any twelve-year-old boy leaving his home for another could tell, there was no use. Of course, Mycroft didn't show it. He was stoic, mature for his age, a proper genius and already a proficient wizard — a chubby boy, seeking the comfort of food in the harsh winters, with the reddish curls he had inherited from his father and the long nose he got from his mother's side. He felt he got passed on the ethereal good looks his sister Eurus and his baby brother had, but it didn't matter to him. Royals were engaged since birth unless circumstances changed, and he was the chosen consort to the Crown Princess of Tree Country. He'd never met Princess Harriet before, but he hoped she was at least kind. She was his elder by two years and rumoured to be brave, but no one had told Mycroft anything else.

Their party, received with all the pomp and fanfare expected for a royal party, didn't linger for long and Mycroft got a first look at his wife-to-be. She was a plump girl of fourteen, loud and cheerful, smiled at Mycroft like she was in on a secret that she didn't want to share. The receiving committee also included a tall, lean boy, with brown hair and matching mischevious eyes, who Mycroft then learned was the Crown Prince of the of the Southern Kingdom, Prince Gregory of the Lestrade clan. His smile was even broader than his niece's, and Mycroft, who was used to not having friends or people nearing his age around himself, felt distrust immediately.

King James, the Jolly King, gave Mycroft all the courtesies and treatment expected for a prince, especially one who would eventually join his household. His ward would lack for nothing. But Mycroft couldn't help to feel miserable, confining himself to his studies with his Uncle Rudolph, who appeared every day to check on him and continue his magical instruction. Rudy was the Mage of the Northern Kingdom, so he never stayed more than a couple of hours. Mycroft had many hours to be idle if he wished, so he spent them getting to know the younger Prince. John was two years older than his little brother, whom he missed terribly, so Mycroft spent some time each day playing with the six-year-old, who at first was a little in awe, more so when he saw Mycroft doing some magic, but after a couple of days, he was closer to the foreign Prince than his sister and Uncle. Prince Gregory and his niece were inseparable and spent most of their time sparring and training together, shared the same tutors and loving the same pastimes. They were polite to Mycroft but left him to his own devices, except when John wrapped them around his little finger and made the three of them play with him or show him something. Mycroft tried to stay in the sidelines in those moments, but John would hear nothing of it. His new friend needed to be there because "Myc, there are frogs in the pond, green ones, and maybe you can talk to them with magic" or "Myc, Cook made mince pies and Greg and Harry will eat them all if we don't go into the kitchen right now". John was the only one allowed to shorten his name, as Harry and Greg learned when they tried 'Myc' on him and earned a withering glare.

But when John went to visit his grandparents in the Southern Kingdom with the Queen, Mycroft felt lonely. For all the time he used to spend running around the young Prince, now that he had free use of it, his idle mind caused some homesickness. It was on one of those days when the stifling summer heat caused him to leave the inside of the castle when Greg and Harry decided to approach him cautiously. Greg seemed to be gathering his wits, puffing his chest out before smiling and saying, "Hey Mycroft, we are going to do some sword training by the river, do you want to join us?"

On some other occasion, Mycroft would have politely refused, but he was so lonely that he was willing to submit to some sparring. That was until he realised that training by the river meant sword fighting over the waters, trying to keep their balance over a trunk across the river bed. Still, Mycroft was not one to back up from a challenge, so he went first, facing a very cheerful Greg.

"Don't worry; I'll go easy on you."  
Mycroft smiled, the cold smile that he would be known for in a distant future, his hand shining with magic and the massive sword that a boy his age shouldn't even be able to raise with little to no training glinting in his arm, and said, "Do your worst, Gregory."

They sparred over the plank, Mycroft aware of the dangers of losing his focus for even one second, and he could see Greg was impressed. He chose not to use his magic, just enough of it to lift the sword, and he still gave Greg a pretty good half an hour of fight, before the older prince managed to make him lose his sword, which he caught with a whirl of his hands before it touched the water. Greg's eyes widened before he splurted, "If you can do that, why didn't you just use magic to kick my arse?" Mycroft frowned, before shrugging, "It would be terribly unsporting, don't you think?" Harry laughed from the river bank, clearly happy it was her turn. Their fight was dirtier and faster than the one the boys had, apparently used to fighting each other; they were a good match for each other's talents. Harry was muscular, her upper body full of strength, taller than Greg and heavier, but the prince was faster and bolder in his strikes.

In one of those moves, both of them lost their balance, and they just missed falling head first into the river by Mycroft stopping their fall with his magic. Greg's face was hovering near some pointy rocks, and Harry's arm almost got pierced by one of the trunk's branches. Their training stopped, and both royals thanked Mycroft for his quick reflexes. From then on though, something changed. Mycroft became one of them since a near-death experience was always a bonding one in their book. The three teenagers became inseparable, and even when the Queen and John returned they still were so, the only change was that now John started to train both magic and swordsmanship with the elder royals.

The years went by, and they all started growing, Mycroft losing his puppy fat and gaining inches each day. By age fourteen he was taller than Greg, still a little stockier, sure, but now they could argue face to face. Harry was the shorter one now, but her fighting skills were even better with each passing day. She started joking with Mycroft about their coming nuptials, though they wouldn't happen until both the prince and princess were of age. They both agreed that being married to someone you liked, especially if you didn't love them that way, was better than what most royals got. On both Harry and Mycroft, when struck by puberty, the realisation hit that the opposite sex had zero effect on their teenage libido whatsoever. Greg was open to anyone's advances, lads or lasses, and the prince started to get a reputation of leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake, which made his two bosom buddies roll their eyes when he narrated his latest exploits.

Mycroft would never admit to anyone that he used his friend as a reference for all men and found them all wanting. He never knew when the crush started, when he began noticing that Greg's smile was luminous, that his white teeth were perfectly straight, that his body moved with a grace no one else could match. That when the prince laughed, Mycroft's traitorous heart skipped a beat each time. But the prince of the North knew duty, and his commitment was to marry Harriet. She noticed, as close friends usually do, and when she got her head turned at age seventeen by the lovely Lady Clara, one of her grandmother's ladies in waiting, both Mycroft and her commiserated together. They started whispering and sighing to each other until Harry was brave enough to pursue a forbidden romance, with the blessing of her fiancé, that is.

After Harry left him near the hidden fountain in the gardens, Mycroft started throwing pebbles as a way to pass the time. That was how Prince Greg found him. He was frowning, and he seemed reluctant to tell Mycroft something. Again, in a gesture as familiar to Mycroft as his own face reflected in the water, Greg squared his shoulders and prepared himself to talk, "Mycroft, I saw Harry in the rose garden by the pond. She was kissing one of my mother's ladies in waiting, the curly-haired one, you know, Clara? Anyway, I thought you might want to know. I told her off since you don't deserve your fiancée to be playing around with your feelings, but she laughed in my face. So then I told her I would duel her for your honour if she didn't pull her act together. She said that the duel was on! Honestly, it seems like I don't know who she is anymore. Her only condition was that I should tell you to be my second if I insisted on duelling, I wanted to spare your feelings, but she gave me no other choice. We will get her for this, mark my words."

Mycroft was so flabbergasted that Greg would duel his niece in his honour, that even though he knew the prince would take it terribly, he couldn't help but laugh. He patted the spot beside him at the corner of the fountain and forced the older prince to take a seat.

Greg pouted at this, resenting his laughter, exclaiming, "Not you too! I swear I turn my back for a second and everyone has gone insane!"  
"Gregory, calm yourself. I was laughing at the ridiculousness of this situation. Why would you think that I will reproach Harry the little love she can get for as long she can get it?"  
"I don't know what you mean, aren't you in love with Harry?"  
"I love Harry.", Greg pointed at him, about to say that he knew all along, but Mycroft lifted his hands to shush him before be could utter a word, "but not in the way you think. I'm going to marry her because it's my duty, and she needs an heir to be Queen. But she doesn't love me romantically, and I don't like her that way either. She is my closest companion, and I'm happy that if someone chose my bride for me, it's her who I'm going to spend my life with."  
"But I thought..." Greg was suddenly quiet, looking at his hands and then at Mycroft.  
"You thought what? That we loved each other? Pray, what gave you that idea?"  
"You both hang with each other alone more than with me, you keep whispering to each other and laughing. I dunno, it felt like you both wanted time away from me, so I imagined you decided to make the best out of your engagement and become a proper couple."

Mycroft laughed, a self-deprecating laugh if there was one, and Greg's eyes were shining with something that Mycroft didn't recognise. "That is because we long ago realised that we would never get what we want and we were commiserating together. You've heard the saying, 'misery loves company'? That is exactly what is going on between Harry and me. But I guess Harry's situation is worse than mine, since she is in love, requited love, but she is unable to make her love official because of her title."

Greg looked pensive, "I'm sorry, bollocks, I didn't know, I wish I hadn't given her such a rough time. I thought she was hurting you, and I couldn't let that happen, not to you."  
"Thank you, Gregory, you are a great friend."  
"Nah, it seems I suck at being a friend, an uncle and a prince. My mother keeps telling me I talk like a peasant! I'm sorry Mycroft. I didn't even know you wanted someone," Mycroft paled and shook his head, "and don't try to deny it now. You told me you would never get what you wanted and you said Harry had requited love. Does it mean yours is unrequited? Lead me to them, and I will show them the error of their ways! How you are the most amazing, caring, handsome..."

Mycroft quieted him with a kiss, a kiss that Greg returned in full. They kissed slowly, Mycroft could feel that Greg had way more experience than him, so he let him lead. He opened his mouth and let Greg's tongue explore it, a little whine escaping him unnoticed. Greg's hands went to his face, then one of them cradled the back of his neck and pushed him closer, which made Mycroft put one of his hands in the fountain water and splash him awkwardly. Greg laughed as he pulled apart, stroking Mycroft's cheek as he whispered, "I've loved you for so long that I can't remember when it started." Mycroft's eyes filled with tears, hearing his feelings mirrored in the object of his affection, as Greg continued, "I thought it was impossible, that you saw me as nothing more that one of your friends, that you loved Harriet." Greg hugged him close and kissed his brow, Mycroft's voice was muffled in his chest as he sighed, "And it is impossible, my love. I'm going to marry your niece. My parents gave their word." Greg clutched him tighter, "We will figure something up. Harry will help us. She loves Clara, and I love you, and you can be my consort instead of hers! John can be my heir!"

Mycroft laughed to himself as he remembered those beautiful years, with Gregory in his arms, hidden in the gardens, stealing kisses and touches. Helping Harry hide Clara in the pantries and laughing. Letting John in on the secret and swearing him to secrecy. Losing his virginity a week shy of his eighteenth birthday, awkward fumbles by the river in the moonlight, both of them pleasuring each other with their hands, and crying afterwards in Gregory's arms because soon he was going to be married to Harry. Who was Mycroft to know that it would not be? The day before his eighteenth birthday Uncle Rudy appeared with a crown on his hands. His sister's circlet, her mark as the next heir of the Holmes clan. Eurus had died protecting her people, spending all her magic and life force by stopping an avalanche in the biggest of the three mines. She died a heroine, but it meant Mycroft's duty had changed the moment her eyes closed in death. Mycroft was now the Crown Prince of the North, his engagement to Harry finalised amicably by both families in the face of grief and duties, and Mycroft was supposed to go back to the North that fortnight. He would take Prince John with him, as the new ward of the Northern Kingdom and engaged to Prince Sherlock, the only way their parents found to keep the union planned between both houses. Greg met Mycroft that very night at the fountain where they first kissed, begging Mycroft to flee with him to the Southern Kingdom and to marry him immediately. But Mycroft had a different idea in his head.

"It's my duty Gregory, to my country and my people. My sister died for them, the least I can do is honour her memory."  
"And our love is less to you than honour and duty then, Mycroft? Am I so disposable to you?" Greg's words stung, breaking his heart in a thousand little pieces.  
"You will be a King soon Gregory; it is your birthright. You love your people and your family."  
"I would leave my crown in a second if it meant I could stay with you. Ask me, Mycroft, and I will renounce my throne and be your consort in the North."  
"And I love you too much to deprive your people of your ruling. You will make an incredible King."

He rose from his seating point at the fountain, and that was the last time they spoke, really spoke that is. He caught a glimpse of him as newly crowned king in his sister's funeral, to which he escorted Sherlock and John years later. Greg looked incredibly handsome in the red and gold livery of his family, even grief-stricken as he was, and his eyes met Mycroft's for a second before he turned his face to look at anywhere else but him. And frankly, Mycroft couldn't blame him. Greg was going to marry the Lady of the Plains, Lady Marguerite of the Hooper clan, who went by Molly to her friends. Then, a couple of years later, Greg gave Mycroft his condolences as he buried Old King Siger in the North. The Southern King was still single and had no rightful heir after his bride-to-be had fled with the eldest son of the Lord of the Fire Mountain. Thus the Fire Plains were born. James Moriarty loved and fought fiercely, as the people in the Tree Country could testify. Once again, they saw each other at the Old Jolly King funeral, where Mycroft held John close as he buried his sister and Father, crying with him bitter tears for his lost friend, while John lost at the same time lost both his family and his hope at happiness with Prince Sherlock. Now, many years later, they would see each other once more when love finally won one of the battles in the Tree Country. 

* * *

 

King Mycroft requested an audience with Rosamund, and she gladly received him in her chamber. It was a small room with gorgeous drapes, a table and a full tea set with scones waiting for them, a fire roaring in a corner fireplace. A portrait of the late Queen hung over it, and Mycroft was admiring the likeness when his cousin walked in.

"Your Highness, so good of you to join us in this joyous occasion." She gave him a cheeky bow, her golden hair and curls cut short. Her sword was gleaming, and she dressed in full armour, much like the one worn by Anthea, but with the Green and Gold livery of the Tree Country. She had the grey eyes of the Vernet clan, eyes she shared with Mycroft and Sherlock, inherited from their grandmother. Folktales in the kingdoms said that those eyes marked their incredible abilities with the magical forces.  
"Cut the formalities child, and come here where I can see you."  
"Losing your eyesight in your old age Uncle Myc?"  
"So the Goddess help me, you are not too old for me to put across my knee."

Rosamund laughed and took her uncle in a big hug, peppering his face with kisses and whispering her apologies. She reminded him so much of a younger John that it made Mycroft's heart swell with memories.

"So, what was it that made you call for this secret meeting? I know you are happy that Papa is finally marrying my father, so I know it's not that..."  
"As always, you are perceptive my dear. Open the box that I left on the mantle."

The princess walked to her mother's portrait and smiled, taking a beautifully carved box and opening it slowly. She looked at the contents and was quiet for a couple of minutes, before turning a tear stained face at her Uncle.

"This is... this is Aunt Eurus's circlet."  
"It is. Receiving this circlet changed my future, and it will change yours too, if you accept it, that is. Since my brother is marrying your father, and you are blood of my blood, I want you to become the official heir of the Northern Kingdom. When I pass from this realm, you will become Queen of the North, and my kingdom will become one with the land of the Trees."  
"I never thought... yes, thank you for your trust Uncle Mycroft, I will not disappoint you."  
"I know you won't, child."

The door opened, and King Greg entered, laughing with his high commander, the Lady Donovan, laughter which stopped the moment he saw Mycroft was in the room with Rosie. He nodded to Mycroft politely, and addressed his niece, "Apologies Rose, I didn't know your uncle was here with you. I needed to talk to you, but it can wait until you finish."  
"Nevermind your Majesty; we finished our business here. Rosamund, see you later at dinner. Gregory. My Lady." And Mycroft rose from his chair, leaving his tea untouched. Rosie closed the box and hugged Mycroft once more before the man himself left the room. 

* * *

 

Mycroft couldn't help himself, his memory replaying Greg's face over and over, his hair had gone almost entirely grey, which made him look even more handsome in Mycroft's eyes. He looked tired but happy, and Mycroft wished it was so. His kingdom was prosperous, his people loved him, and even though he, as Mycroft himself, lacked an heir, the courts never had anything disfavorable to say about the King of the South. Noble, great, those were the monickers that went with his name, and Mycroft never doubted the truth behind them. Those were the thoughts that plagued his mind, and without realising where he was going, he ended his journey in the gardens, in the same fountain they'd parted ways all those years ago. He stood in front of the barren enclosures, touched by winter as everything around them. The water in the fountain was frozen - Mycroft laughed to himself - as frozen as his heart. The metaphor was irresistible.

"Your Majesty, it's freezing out here. Join the rest of your family at the table. They will serve dinner soon."

The voice he heard made Mycroft shiver, but he could blame the cold for that.

"If you don't mind, Gregory, I will stay here a few minutes more."  
"Mycroft. I..." The hesitation, the tremor in his voice. Something Mycroft remembered from ages ago, still in his mind. That voice was harsher, with more years on it, but it was caring even then and carried a sweetness that he knew he didn't deserve.  
"Yes?"

Greg stood beside him, staring at the frozen water. Mycroft shivered again, and Greg took his coat off and wrapped it around him, despite Mycroft's protests that his own was warm enough for the weather. His arms didn't leave Mycroft's.

"I use to come to this fountain and pretend I was talking to you. I've said these words a thousand times right here, and my yuletide wish is that you would finally hear them. Mycroft, I'm sorry." Mycroft raised his hand to stop him, but Greg kept talking, "I'm sorry for everything. For all these years of silence. You were right, I know now, you were right all along, but my biggest fear was to lose you, and in my stubbornness, I lost you anyway. You did what you did out of love, and I broke your heart and mine while at it too. I hope you have it in you to forgive me."  
"There's nothing to forgive Gregory; you were right too. Love should come before duty. But I've done my duty to my people, to my family, and so have you. Today I named Rosamund as my rightful heir. Do I assume correctly that is what you did too?"

Greg laughed, and Mycroft's heart soared, since it was a sound he thought he would never cause again.

"Indeed. They don't call you the Genius King just because, right?"

Those warm brown eyes melted the ice inside the Northern King, bright with unshed tears.

"There is wisdom in the word of the people. They call you great, and you were always that to me."

The kiss caught Mycroft unaware, but it was like coming back home, the reunion with part of himself he didn't know he'd lost. He could feel the moisture of his own eyes mixing with the tears in now flowing freely through Greg's cheeks.

As they parted, Greg's voice loud in the empty garden, his words bringing Mycroft incredible joy, "I've loved no other but the King of the North."  
"Funny of you to mention it, since my heart belongs to the King of the South. Always has, always will." Mycroft was smiling, and Greg stroked his cheek, the same way as all those years before.  
"I love this beard. We are a couple of fools, my love."  
"Indeed. But there is hope for us still."

Mycroft extended took his beloved's hand, walking away from the fountain and into the light. They still had a future, and their people would have a Queen while they both would get their happiness. Greg smiled at him, squeezing the hand he was given, following Mycroft into the castle and to their future.


End file.
